


Glass House

by Daisy_PoisonPen



Series: Glass House and Muddy Shoes [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Romance, Bruce sucks at relationships, Clark has some dignity, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, I’m not sorry, M/M, Post-Justice League (2017), Romance, Smut, for a while, so it doesn't go well, this started out as crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 12:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_PoisonPen/pseuds/Daisy_PoisonPen
Summary: After Bruce visits the farmhouse and filthy, sexy Clark Kent, they fall into a relationship that Bruce really wasn’t ready for. Discouraged, Clark and Bruce end up taking a break and Bruce really reexamines his philosophy on love, loneliness, and whether or not he really needs to be alone to be Batman.





	Glass House

Clark didn’t sleep while Bruce slept. He spent that time memorizing Bruce’s heartbeat. He listens to it all the time now: while Bruce is on the phone dealing with business, while he trains or patrols at night. While he sleeps.

Sometimes he waits high above Gotham, too high to be seen. He doesn’t wear his suit and cape… he could, but then he’d be working. No, he doesn’t listen above Gotham for signs of trouble. He waits because sometimes Bruce wants him to come.

He’ll know when, he’ll hear it. The whisper of Bruce shedding his clothing, the clink of his cufflinks dropping into a bowl on his nightstand along with his watch. Or, the shuffling of the Dark Knight’s gear carefully being set in its display case, piece by piece, the rich, snapping  _ whoosh  _ of his cape, always last as he drapes it into place and clasps it there. 

It has been that way for the last six months.

Tonight, he hears the distinct clicking of a custom utility belt, unzipping, and the click of various clasps. He hears a sigh and the shuffle of material against hair, the Bat’s mask coming away from his face. He hears another sigh of relief and the thunk of boots hitting the ground. All of them are carefully placed in their assigned space, the cape always last. He hears other sounds now, scissors cutting into fabric or snipping at suture wire. He hears the fizzing hiss of peroxide and the tearing of tape. Throughout it all, Bruce’s heartbeat doesn’t change. It is a small comfort—he hates it when Bruce is injured on patrol.

There’s a soft, “Thank you, Alfred.” The person in question doesn’t seem to acknowledge the thanks out loud. Alfred is wise that way, speaking when Bruce needs to hear something, but reserved when he knows Bruce wants peace. He hears the whisper and click of a door sliding shut, and then another of one sliding open.

He smiles excitedly. He’s already descending before he hears the words he has been waiting for. “I know you’re out there.” They’re barely above a murmur, but to Clark it’s the same as if he were shouting. “I’m okay. Come see.”

He drops into the patio outside the master bedroom and touches down quietly before Bruce is even done talking, and he presses himself right against his body, sighing happily as Bruce’s arms come tentatively around him. He untangles himself from the embrace long enough to inspect Bruce for further injuries. He only finds the stitches he heard before, which turn out to be on his left forearm. He takes the arm in question and kisses it, lining tiny butterfly kisses all around the bandage before blowing on it a little bit, in an effort to soothe the pain and burn from the sterilizers and the sutures with his cold breath. Bruce shivers, and then he sighs at the relief. Clark finds himself engulfed in that embrace again, and this time, he stays. He’s happy like this.

He puts so much effort into showing his affection to Bruce. He doesn’t realize why, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter. He likes doing it. Bringing him baked goods or wildflowers from some exotic place, or some bottle of wine for his collection from some exotic place, and seeing how his face relaxes, lines on his forehead softening, lips ticking up into a smile, makes him feel good.

Clark has always been the type to  _ do  _ things, even little things. His father taught him that action and inaction were infinitely more important than any words he could ever say. His inaction lead to his father’s death. His action led to earth’s rescue from Zod. His inaction led to dozens of deaths in the Capitol. His action lead to his own death, but the rescue of earth. 

But even more simply, everything he does has consequences. His active work is what keeps the farm going. Ceasing to do those things would grind his and his mother’s finances to a halt.

He doesn’t mind work, though. Work, action,  _ planned and executed  _ steps, those have been a part of his life since he was a baby. It was what made his birth father a good scientist, and it’s what made his adoptive father a good farmer. It was what made him a good farmer too, and a good investigator and journalist. It’s his belief that actions are what show intentions, not words or beliefs. Actions.

He wants to show Bruce affection, friendship, and love (but Bruce isn’t ready to talk about that yet) so instead of talking, he acts. He keeps watch over the Dark Knight’s patrols. He brings gifts. He makes breakfast or dinner sometimes. He flies to France or Italy or Spain to buy wines or foods that Bruce would like. He kisses his wounds, massages his overused muscles. And he loves every moment of it, because actions without heart are as meaningless as words without action. He hopes that in all of those things, even though they might seem simple or mundane, Bruce sees how he makes Clark excited to be alive again.

Bruce is just as calculated with his actions, if not more. Which is why it bothers Clark that Bruce frequently chooses not to do or say things, reacting only to Clark’s affection but rarely giving any of his own.

He asks, “how was your patrol?”

He hears how Bruce’s heart picks up ever so slightly as he pulls them inside and shuts the patio door. “You already know how it went. Why do you ask?”

They have this conversation exactly the same way every time. Clark sighs now, frustrated. Why is it that Bruce can’t give him the tiniest piece of his mind, some reassurance that he is willing to share himself too?

Today, he’s had enough. “Because I want to know how  _ you  _ are.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

Clark steps back, out of Bruce’s embrace. Turns around, faces the glass. The night is brewing a storm. Clouds are creeping over the moon, darkening its reflection on the lake outside. “You got hurt today.”

“Occupational hazard,” Bruce answers, confused and already defensive.

“Whatever,” Clark huffs. “That isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?” Bruce asks, his voice low.

“The point is you, hiding your thoughts, hiding your feelings, all the time.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, not even to defend himself from the accusation.

Clark’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know you, Bruce,” he whispers. “I wish I knew.” He swallows. “You know everything about me. I  _ want  _ you to know everything about me. I want you to see who I am. Why… why don’t you want that too?”

For his part, Bruce hadn’t fully been prepared for this. He knew in his soul that he needed Clark around, but he wasn’t prepared to let Clark in. Clark is exuberant in everything he does. There’s loving kindness in everything he does, from natural disaster rescues to kissing his fucking booboos like he’s four. Clark’s care spills out of him like tidal waves. And frankly, Bruce is drowning. 

He’s not sure how to reciprocate, what to say… how to let Clark  _ in.  _ Why he’s not sure he wants to. His hesitation must be plain on his face, and he curses himself for the way Clark’s expression shutters itself into neutrality in the reflection of the glass.

He doesn’t like that Clark makes him lose his poker face. If he’s honest with himself, Clark has been under his skin since he saw him soaring through the Metropolis sky, his destructive battle with that General Zod pulverizing the city and its people by the thousands. Clark makes him… irrational. If it had been anyone else, Bruce would have seen their hatred for each other before for the chess match it was and the pawns they’d been. Clark seems to thrive in the nakedness between them, but Bruce can’t stand it. It makes him want to run as far the fuck away as he can get.

Clark nods. “It’s okay,” he whispers. He’s trying to be kind, Bruce realizes. He’s trying to be understanding. “I… if we’ve gone too fast or… or maybe you’re not happy that way, that’s okay.” He swallows. “I’ll just… I’ll just have to find another way.”

The absolute heartbreak in his voice is making Bruce feel like he’s drowning again. His lungs burn and his chest is too tight. He can’t seem to suck in enough air.

Clark listens as Bruce’s heartbeat suddenly skyrockets. Bruce doesn’t want him to leave. But the truth is, Bruce doesn’t want him to stay. He feels crushed by this. “It’s not fair,” he says, and now he’s angry. “You let yourself into my life. You showed up at the farm without any warning and then you told me that you accepted me, all of me. Now I… I’m asking for you to let me in but you don’t want to. You want to leave me outside, looking in.” Clark’s hand raises to the glass pane. With even the slightest bit of pressure, he could shatter it, but he won’t. “You want it to be that way for everyone, don’t you? Everyone and anyone could look through these glass walls and see Bruce Wayne but no one will ever truly know, will they? You’ve had a glass house your entire life. They see you walk around, eat, move, attend functions, business meetings, and they think they know who you are. But they’re just standing outside with their noses pressed to the glass.” He lifts off, and Bruce doesn’t try to stop him, frozen in place by Clark’s words. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be different,” he says after a moment. Then he shoots into the sky, leaving sonic booms and a strong breeze in his wake.

* * *

Bruce hasn’t touched his breakfast. It’s the third day in a row. Alfred clears his plate and his glass of scotch which is also, coincidentally, drained completely for the third day in a row.

“You haven’t said a word,” Alfred says, “about what happened between you and Master Clark.”

“There’s nothing to say. He left me like I knew he eventually would.”

“That sounds a lot like self-fulfilling prophecy to me,” Alfred muses. “You knew he would leave so you purposely kept him at arm’s length, which he eventually grew tired of and left.”

“I’m fully aware that this is my fault, Alfred,” Bruce mutters acidly.

“It is, but not for the reason you suspect.”

“I couldn’t stay with him, Alfred. He...he makes me…” Bruce swallows. He needs more scotch but the cup is gone. “He makes me irrational. He makes me feel… distracted and overwhelmed and…”

“And happy and in love?”

“I—that’s not what I…”

“Oh for the love of God,” Alfred mutters. He pours himself scotch this time, and downs most of it in one go. “I don’t understand, I have tried to help him. I have myself raised him, practically. What did I do wrong that the boy wouldn’t know love if it socked him right in his bloody face--”

“Alfred,” Bruce huffs. “Alfred, stop it. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I wasn’t meant for love.”

“What, pray tell, does that mean, Master Bruce?” When Alfred starts using words like ‘pray tell’ it means he’s beyond pissed.

Bruce shoves his fingers into his hair, yanking in frustration. “I just can’t do it. My kids all either hate me or are dead. My parents are dead. Women that still pay me any attention only see… well, the glass-house Bruce, the way Clark put it, and that’s all they want. What I am has taken away a chance for a normal personal life, and I’ve accepted that.”

“That’s it then? You’ve just accepted that? Master Bruce, pardon me for saying, but if you were any more of an idiot, you would be brain-dead.”

Bruce glares. “Alfred—”

“The boy loves you, Master Bruce. He knows that you are the Batman. He knows that you have a horrific temper and you’re quite spoiled, if I do say so myself. He knows, already, Bruce! He met the sharp end of that temper of yours already, right along with your stubbornness.”

Bruce’s guilt spikes into his throat, and it tastes like half-digested scotch.

“What on earth would make you want to keep him away after forgiving you and being willing to love you after such a thing?”

Bruce’s shoulders slump. “He shouldn’t want to be near me,” he whispers finally.

“So your unending self-loathing gives you the right to decide his feelings for him?”

Bruce stands up, ready to retreat to his room. He doesn’t want to hear this anymore. “I can’t, Alfred. Please don’t. I can’t do it.”

Alfred looks like he wants to strangle Bruce as he walks away, but he lets him go, huffing as the door to his bedroom clicks shut.

Accepting Clark for his superpowers, and his quirks, and his too-kind, too-pure farm boy personality, and his stupid perfect blue eyes and muscles, and his stunning intelligence and strange, alien grace—all of that had been easy. Too easy, really, he got sucked in like an insect in a vacuum.

It turned out that Alfred was right, and accepting Clark accepting him turned out to be something he struggled with more with than any of those other things.

He leans against the door, sinks down against it. Curls his arms around his knees until he’s in a tight ball. He forces himself to regulate his breaths.

He doesn’t know what to do now. He lets his eyes burn like his lungs, he lets his throat tighten like his fists. He doesn’t want to meditate or let his pain out on a punching bag or on some criminals that don’t deserve a shred of his leniency. He wants to live in this and die in it. He wants to punish himself with it.

That’s what he’s good at anyway.

* * *

Clark isn’t very good at keeping himself together.

He got home and laid in his futon that he shared with Bruce, and he cried. When he cried himself dry, he went to his mother and curled up in her lap like a fucking baby and told her that he and Bruce were probably over now, and she made him cookies and pulled her fingers through his hair until he was half-asleep.

“You know,” she said after a long time, “Bruce came to see me while you were gone. He said he wanted to check on me after being kidnapped.”

“He checked up on you?” Clark whispered.

“Multiple times. Much like he did with you that time.”

Clark swallows. That time replays itself in his mind all the time now: the way Bruce had craved his hands, his sweat, his skin, the way they’d moved together. Clark gave himself away that day, and Bruce knew it. His broken heart feels a little bit more crushed as he realizes that Bruce never had any intention of giving any part of himself in return.

When he tunes his mother in, she’s saying, “it takes more than a few months for a man like that to let go of the stranglehold he has on his loneliness.”

Clark’s eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“I said,” Martha says with a knowing smile, “that Bruce has been lonely for most of his life. I’m sure that he loves you deeply, Clark, but he probably doesn’t know what to do to show you, and he probably feels pressure to live up to the affection that you show him. After being without a family for so long, living with his loneliness, wrestling it and giving in to it, I can’t imagine that it’s easy to suddenly give up on that struggle in favor of someone that loves him, even though he feels the same. Someone like Bruce, son, is rare, because his feelings are as deep and immovable as he is. I’m sure that he wants to let you in, Clark. But it takes more than a few months for a man like that to let go of the stranglehold he has on his loneliness.”

Clark’s eyes water. Has Bruce really suffered that long? Does that mean that it will be impossible for Bruce to let him in? Could he accept that? He doesn’t want to think about Bruce being lonely, fighting crime—God, in Gotham of all places!—and not having a best friend or lover to share his victories with, not have his mother’s arms to rest in after his defeats. God, they were ripped away from him too young. It’s not fair. Alfred is probably the one that he goes to, a best friend or a father that keeps him away from the edge. Even still, Bruce deserves more, he deserves his own family.

Clark’s stomach sinks. Bruce doesn’t want those things. He gave his heart away to his city. He says, “Bruce… isn’t lonely. He has Gotham.”

“Having a crime-riddled city to protect is not the same as having someone to love, and he knows it as well as you do. Give him time, Clark.”

Clark closed his eyes. “I will, Mom.”

He tries to do just that. He gives himself completely to the farm, tending to its business with care. He doesn’t try to contact Bruce, trying to figure out what he wants and leaving space for Bruce to figure things out, too. He wants to say that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to put pressure on Bruce, and that he didn’t want to make Bruce feel inadequate. Somehow, he doesn’t think that that is what Bruce needs to hear. So, he takes care of the farm until it’s acres seem to have shrunk into meters.

He decides that he’s had enough waiting around eventually. He can’t wait for Bruce to come find him or call him out of the sky anymore. Bruce… isn’t ready for this, for him. He steels himself and gets ready to move on.

* * *

Bruce finds out that Clark is gone. Traveling, Martha said. He did it once a long time ago, searching for clues about where he came from. It had taken him several years to come home on any permanent basis, but it had seemed to give him the energy he needed to defeat Zod.

That last thought gives Bruce reason to believe that maybe Clark is preparing himself to be Superman again, and that makes him feel somewhat at ease.

Bruce goes through the motions a lot, now. He eats because he has to, sleeps because he has to. Fights criminals to get through the night. Shows up at business meetings even though his notes are going to be gibberish.  He hasn’t been able to find meaning to any of it, anymore. He spends time in his cave instead, staring at his son’s armor, the cruel words painted on it. That gives him anger, and anger fuels the Dark Knight’s escapades.

Weeks blur into a month, and then two. Then, six. He doesn’t attempt to contact Clark, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think there’s anything he could say to make this better, if he’s honest with himself.

He finds himself missing Clark deeply. Clark has a way of keeping him away from the darkest of his thoughts. The simple little things that Clark always had a knack of knowing when to bring--bottles of wine, foreign foods, gifts for his desk at work, parts for his fleet in the BatCave… those things always came when he needed it. Whether Clark knew it or not, he seemed to have the ability to take the edge off of Bruce’s worst moods and attitudes.

No, he wouldn’t know. The worst things in Bruce’s mind stay there. He Did wouldn’t want to…

To what? Clark literally heard the entire world turn on him, including Bruce. And then he died. Clark can handle his dark moods. He might even understand them. Why didn’t he trust Clark? What did he even need to trust Clark to do? 

Clark isn’t the kind of person that casually befriends people--he is friendly, obviously, and deeply kind, the type of kindness that is innate and selfless. But living with his identity has probably made him just as guarded, if not more. He’s not going to blab to some random friends about their identities or something. He can trust Clark for that.

Clark isn’t going to judge him, wouldn’t have left him over what he said. Back…  _ before… _ they’d spent a lot of time judging each other’s methods. But when it came down to it, Clark hadn’t shown up to fight, he’d shown up to try to reason with him. After everything horrible that Bruce had planned, Clark was there to reason with him, not be judge and jury. If he could be so casual about the planning of his own death, the truth was, Bruce’s dark moods were probably par for the course.

So what is the issue? What does he need to trust Clark with?

He broods over his dinner which he picks at but doesn’t finish. He broods on his patrol, which is cold and quiet. The Gotham Bridge is lit his favorite place to sit on calm nights, so he makes his way to the very top and observes the city from a distance. He smiles. She isn’t the gleaming, modern “City of Tomorrow” that Metropolis has become, but Gotham is still beautiful, still his. Still the same.

Clark would like this view, he thinks. Clark loves finding a good view. He says it’s the best thing about flying.

“I miss you, Clark,” he says out loud. It’s barely above his normal speaking tone, but Bruce knows that if he’s out there, he’s listening.

* * *

Clark freezes. He’s in an airplane to New York City, returning to the States after backpacking through all of Russia and most of Europe. He only planned to stay two weeks in Smallville before going to China next, but now he realizes that might have to change because—

_ “I wish I knew what to tell you. I wish I could say, ‘I know how to let you in now’ and beg you back to me but… the truth is, I never deserved you anyway. I want you to know that it was never that I couldn’t accept you like I promised. I… wasn’t—I’m not—happy with myself. I’m sorry that led to what happened between us. I just… I miss you. I miss you, Clark. I’m so sorry.” _

Clark squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to cover his ears against the soft, muffled sounds of Bruce’s tears. 

The second they’re let off the plane, he’s flying.

 

* * *

Bruce takes off his Bat suit in his normal, slow progression, idly cataloguing the things left in his utility belt and pockets—he has to make more batarangs soon—and checking his suit and cape for damage.

His attention and his heart aren’t truly in this, though, not right now. As he sits down to write his nightly observations report, the only thing he can type is “did he hear me? why didn’t he come?” The angry smashing of the backspace button comes with a frustrated grunt. He resolves to try to sleep off his funk.

In his heart, he knows he won't sleep this off. He feels shattered and drained, more than usual. He takes the steps to the house slowly head hanging and shoulders limp.  _ Did he go back to the city… back to Lois?  _ He wouldn’t blame Clark for that. Clark cared about her deeply—she was the first person outside his family that he ever trusted with his secret, and she supported him throughout the darkest moment of his life. He feels irrationally jealous, now. He doesn't  _ want _ her to be the one supporting him. He hates that she’s seen Clark at his lowest and loved him.

But the truth is… Clark has probably never seen her life-shattering lows, before. Their focus had been entirely on him, on his life and abilities. Clark… doesn’t do well with that kind of unreciprocated focus. It’s probably why he let her go.

The thought soothes him a little bit as he opens the door to his bedroom. He startles when he realizes someone is inside it, pacing. He sags against the door, his eyes burning. “C-Clark…?”

Clark is in his arms almost before he's shut the door. Feeling like he can breathe again, he takes several slow, measured breaths. He inhales Clark’s scent and warmth and exhales months of confusion and pain until he’s okay enough to talk about this.

Clark is looking him over, his eyes visibly shifting focus as he looks through Bruce’s clothes. “Slow night, baby,” he whispers. “I’m not hurt.”

Clark’s eyes meet his, studying him for a moment, and then he pulls himself close again. “Bruce?” he finally asks. “I don’t know what to do now.” He sounds horribly small, the lostness in his voice heartbreaking.

Bruce’s breath hitches, stuck on the sobs he’s suppressing. He takes more slow breaths. “Lay with me?” he whispers. “I… will tell you anything you want to know.”

Clark doesn't answer, but he picks them up and lands them gently on the bed, still pressed tightly against Bruce’s chest, his ear over his heart.

The talk for hours… well past sunrise and breakfast… and lunch… they talk themselves to sleep and then wake up to pick up the conversation again. They spend all day this way, and Bruce finds it easier than he thought it would be to tell Clark everything, without holding back, without even thinking about whether something could be dangerous later on, or if this knowledge will backfire and send Clark running for the hills. He gives himself the space to cry, laugh, disagree. He realizes that it’s the first meaningful conversation they’ve ever had since they got together. There’s something deeply wrong with that.

Eventually he whispers, “I can’t believe I had it all wrong. I want this with you, Clark. I want you to feel how I want this with you. I… I hope that you can forgive me.”

Clark snuggles himself closer, smiling into his chest. “Of course I forgive you. But there has to be rules.”

Bruce smiles. “I was just thinking the same. First… you said earlier that you worry about having put too much pressure on me. I get it, you’re probably right. But that is who and how you are—I could never ask you to stop. But maybe… I think we should both have a day—maybe one day a week or a month, I don’t know—and that can be our day to ask for things. You can buy me whatever you want, and you can ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer.”

Clark looks up at him. “Really? You promise?”

Bruce nods. “I… am not good at spontaneity,” he confesses. “But if we have a day for it, I think I’ll be ready enough that—mmph,” he cuts off when Clark’s lips crash into his. “Wait,” he mumbles, trying to slow the kiss, “there’s more. I… rarely talk about patrols because… well, they’re exhausting but also, it’s not safe. I know you always worry about me, but I promise you, if something serious is happening, if I need you, if I’m injured or if it affects Superman, I will always tell you. Can you live with that?”

Clark frowns. “It’s not… I don't want a daily report, Bruce, especially not if it’s something sensitive or ongoing. When I ask, I want you to tell me about  _ you. _ Did you get done what you wanted to, are you okay—not just physically, you know? Are you going to be able to rest tonight? God, sometimes your nightmares are… they’re worse after certain patrols and you’ve never said why. And if I asked, you’d get angry.”

Bruce sighs heavily. “I understand. I… don’t know if I can always give those answers but… but I will try. For you, I will try.” Bruce sucks in a sharp breath. “I… have trained people in the past. To be like me, I mean. Most of the time, they wanted to do it, but I should have known better. It always ended badly.”

“Who?” Clark whispers.

“My kids. My sons, the people that I… that I’ve loved more than my own life—and Clark, I lost them all.” 

“Bruce…”

“They hate what I’ve become, what I’ve made them. They’ve left Gotham, left all of this—I don't blame them. At least the ones that did are alive, doing well on their own.”

Clark’s grip on him tightens. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. 

“It’s what a lot of my nightmares are about.”

“Did… on a patrol?” Clark whispers.

“Joker kidnapped my son and tormented him to death. When I found him it was too late. I couldn’t save him. He did it just to taunt me.”

Clark’s teeth grind. “You did everything you could.”

“Yes I did. It’s worse that it wasn't enough. I’m afraid… especially now that they’re so far away...”

“Would it make you feel better if I listened to them?”

Bruce smiles. “Yes,” he admits eventually.

Clark nods. “Okay. I can’t… imagine… I wish I could have helped you.”

“Me, too.”

“But I can help now.” His voice is low, warm but steely and firm, his mild accent fading and being replaced with a silky, polished tone. This is Superman speaking, letting him know that his family is under the protection of the Man of Steel.

Bruce would have found that to be horrifying not two or three years ago. Now, he finds it endearing. He’s grateful, even—emotionally stirred in a way he hasn’t felt before getting to know Clark. He says, “I love you too, Clark.”

Clark sucks in a breath. “I…”

“You’re always showing me how much. I want to show you that I do too.”

Clark’s smile rivals the sun.

 

* * *

Clark stays in Gotham for one month before going home to Smallville. After that, he starts wearing his suit and cape again, abandoning the rest of his travels in favor of getting to know Bruce’s kids as much as he can—from a distance, anyway. He takes this as seriously as he takes watching over Bruce, over his friends at the Planet, over his mother.

He finds out that Richard Grayson Wayne — Dick Grayson is what he goes by, having essentially refused his association with his adoptive father — is a detective in Blüdhaven, and a brilliant one at that. He finds himself working with the Blüdhaven Sherriff’s department regularly. 

Timothy is still in Gotham, working as a supervisor at a factory. He watches Tim closely, especially when Batman is unavailable for patrol. That area is a particularly unsafe place in Gotham and he makes sure the younger man is safe until he gets home.

Damian… well, Damian is a teenager who now has returned to his mother and her League of Assassins. Clark doesn’t particularly approve, but he made a promise, and he intends to keep it. Besides, the teen is well-trained to defend himself. He studies the league’s techniques, deciding to implement some of the less-lethal things in his own fighting style. 

Bruce seems satisfied at this. “We got lucky with Steppenwolf. But brute strength and cold air won’t always win a fight. Besides knowing when to use what powers to use as tools, you should learn close combat and basic defense skills. People like Steppenwolf spend their lives fighting. It can’t hurt to be ready.”

Clark thinks this is valid, but he still rolls his eyes at the lecture playfully. He does, however, accept Bruce’s offer to help him learn and practice those things, and they bond over katas and getting sweaty together while they exercise.

His first official fight as Superman again is in Metropolis, of course. He handles it well, making sure to keep damage to a minimum, gives Lois the exclusive. It’s good seeing her again. They talk extensively about Clark coming back to life, about how and how long, where he’s been and if he has done any acts of heroism besides this since he’s been back. The last part he gives vague answers to on record, and off record he tells her he’s been working on himself and a new relationship.

Bruce hates that she’s the one that did the interview, and Clark tries to pry that fact out of him like prying open pistachios that don't have openings in their shells.

Eventually, Bruce caves. “It’s nothing, I know it is irrational. But I don't want her near you, I don't want her to talk to you or fucking touch you. I know that probably can’t be helped, especially with how she… how she deals with Superman. I don’t… I’m jealous, okay? There, I said it. I hate this feeling and I’m angry at you for doing that interview without telling me it would be her.”

Clark doesn’t say anything, but takes Bruce by surprise when he flies them out the balcony and high into the air, until the air is a little thin. From up here, even the skyscrapers look tiny, like buildings made of legos, glinting in the sunset like pieces of broken glass and shattered marble. He lets Bruce observe all of Gotham for a moment before he says, “you’re the only one I fly with, now.”

Bruce smiles, leaning into him. He saw the intimacy with which Lois had held him when they flew off, right after Bruce and the rest had revived him. The thought that that feeling is reserved only for him now soothes his nerves, and he takes in a lungful of air, letting it out slowly.

“I love you,” he says against Clark’s skin.

“I love you, too.” Clark smiles. He used to fly above Gotham on his own, waiting in the wings for Bruce to call. Now, they are high above Gotham together. They’ll go home together, too. 

He gets a gleeful smirk on his face. “Do you like parachuting?”

Bruce nods.

“Want to see how I come down from extreme heights so quickly?”

“I’m going to guess that you drop.”

“Mm-hmm. Hang on to me.”

And then they’re dropping. Wind rushes past them so fast it hurts Bruce’s eyes to keep them open. Still, he can feel Clark against him, controlling every microsecond of their descent. They are dropping, sure, but it’s… different. They are going fast, so fast now that he can’t hear his breaths whooshing away. Are they going faster than sound? he doesn't care. Clark’s lips are at his ear, nipping insistently. He wants to tell him to stop getting distracted, but to be honest, at this point he has no doubt that Clark is paying attention to their height and the sensitive skin that keeps making him shiver. 

It’s over almost before it starts. When Bruce can hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears again, he’s already on the bed in his bedroom. He can hear the thunder from them breaking the sound barrier catching up with them as Clark impatiently peels him out of his shirt.

It used to bother him that Clark is exuberant in his affection. Now, he just lets it happen. He’s trying to learn to let Clark be himself, and Clark is trying to learn to recognize his efforts in return. Bruce is much more subtle than he is. His affections are tiny—a text here, a kiss there. The words that fall more freely from his lips now, “I love you,” although the words always come up in the context of something like this.

They aren’t perfect by any means, but Clark loves him still. He’s aware that it’s next to impossible for Bruce to bare his soul the way Clark does. Instead of being impatient, he’s resolved to keep showing his, showing Bruce that they belong together.

Bruce focuses his attention on his favorite spots of Clark’s skin: the soft spatter of hairs which he thought was ironic when he first saw them, considering how smooth his jaw is; the dip of his navel and the muscles surrounding it, which he enjoys especially because of the sounds Clark makes when he traces them all with his tongue; the strong hand always clutching one of his—Bruce used to think it would be better if he let go of Clark once upon a time, but it hurts worse that way.

Instead, he tangles their fingers together as he meets Clark’s crystal eyes, smiling at their shine. He soaks in the electricity that surrounds them, the kind they make as their bodies press close together. It’s much better this way than it is when he is alone. 

He can let go of all of his loneliness now. Bruce pushes into Clark slowly, taking his body gently and being rewarded with his favorite sound in the world. 

Clark sucks in a breath and releases it on a moan, “Oh—Bruce…”

His lips trail to lovely, smooth column of his throat, which he tries incessantly to leave marks on with his teeth, drawing deep groans from the depths of it.

He whispers those words, “I love you, Clark,” as Clark’s body finally falls into completion, the pleasure ripping Bruce’s name from his lips over and over until his breaths return to normal. 

In the morning, Clark wakes up and sees clear plastic sheet lining the glass wall of the master bedroom and chunks of steel glass on the ground. Bruce tells him that they shattered the glass in most of the house… together. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you made it this far, there are cookies on that table over there.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think and if you caught any typos or have any questions, right there in the comments. I absolutely love to hear from you guys.
> 
> stay tuned for some other cute Bruce/Clark fluff over in [Best Friends ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906240/chapters/34525721) and some Detroit: Become Human craziness too.
> 
> y’all rock,  
> <3Daisy


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